Authors: Rick Boyer
"Why do you call him Charlie?"
"Named him after you, Doc. Who knows? Maybe I'll
teach him to play chess. C'mon. Atta boy —"
A horrid, flat-headed creature oozed out from behind
the coral. It was purplish gray and blotched. Its wide head had two
popeyes. Its sucking mouth sprouted whiskers: long, pointy tendrils
of pink flesh that waved and flipped about obscenely. Suddenly it
snapped upward, wriggling snakelike through the water, then slammed
itself against the side of the aquarium, affixing its mouth and flat
belly to the smooth glass. In thc center of this pink-gray nightmare
of flattened tissue, a raspy radula pulsed. On its back, just behind
each glaring eye, a foul hole snapped open and shut, open and shut,
with its breathing.
I wanted to puke.
"Whaddayuh think, Doc?"
"What do I think? I can't think. I'm too
nauseated. I'm leaving. Moe, you need professional help."
"But I am professional help."
I left the lost chess game, my cuckoo-genius friend,
and my repulsive namesake and hotfooted it over to the hospital. I
timed my arrival perfectly; Brian Hannon had just finished speaking
with Roantis and was talking with the surgeon, Bill Nesbit. They said
I could go on up to see my battered soldier friend.
Roantis was sitting up in bed watching a TV game
show. It was some kind of association game. "Ready?" said
the host. "Okay: banana. " As soon as he said the word, a
big clock started ticking with chimes. The young housewife clenched
her lists and jumped up and down, her eyes shut tight in
concentration. "Uh . . . uh . . . ape!" she screamed. But
the clock kept going.
"Ohhh! . . . Uh . . . uh . . . Chiquita."'
Nope. Still incorrect.
AWWWWWNK! came the buzzer, and the poor housewife
went limp. "Awwwwww!" said the audience. "I'm sorry,
Mrs. Kemp," said the host, "the correct word was split. "
The crowd murmured in sympathy. "But," he retorted, "before
you go away mad, look what you've won!" Bugles sounded. A big
curtain swept up to reveal a trash compactor. The crowd said,
"Ooooooooooooo!"
I flipped the set off.
"Hey Doc – Why'd you turn off my show?"
"You weren't really watching that trash, were
you?"
"Why not? It's kinda cute. See, each player
tries to think of a word. Then they —"
"I don't want to hear it. I see you've been
making excellent progress. Hard to believe that two weeks ago I
would've sworn you were dead. They were smart not to remove the slug
until your strength was back. When do you go home?"
He frowned and sank lower into the covers.
"Not for ten more days. Maybe more."
"Well that's not too bad. You could use a rest
anyway. And some time off the booze. They say your liver looks as big
as a beachball."
"Ahhhh screw 'em!" he said, waving his hand
impatiently. "That's not what I'm worried about. Listen: I got
no health insurance. You know what the bill's gonna be for this?
About ten grand."
"Sounds about right."
"Yeah. And I got no savings either. How am I
gonna pay? Doc, I gotta get that statue now. Gotta."'
"We'll talk about that later."
"We'll talk now. Look!" He pulled the front
of his hospital johnny down, revealing his bare neck. "He took
my key. That's why the guy shot me, Doc. To get my key. Christ, he's
probably been there and gone by now. With my gold Siva!"
I thought back to that morning on the frozen road, to
the man in the tan parka with the black knife in his hand hunkered
down over Roantis. That was what the knife was for: to cut the thin
chain from his neck and take the safe deposit key.
"The gunman knows you, Liatis. He knew about the
key and he knows you. Who is he?"
"I don't know, I never saw him."
"You spent a lot of time looking out our porch
windows, remember? And you asked for my automatic before you went to
sleep. You knew something was up. What?"
"I don't know exactly. just something. It's an
instinct I've developed, I guess. I knew something had happened to
Ken and I suspected it had to do with the loot. I still think that.
That's why I came to you in the first place. Thing is, before it was
just something I wanted for myself and my son. Now it's something I
need."
He reached out to grab the water pitcher on the table
but couldn't do it. Wincing, he returned his arm to its resting place
across his chest. Nesbit had done his cutting from the back, but any
arm movement on Roantis's part picked up painful signals from the
severed tissue. It must have hurt; I saw a shiny film of sweat along
his brow and chin—and Liatis Roantis knew pain as most of us know
our shadows.
I picked up the water pitcher and poured him a glass,
but he told me it was the paper underneath the glass that I was to
take. I picked it up and saw a list of names and addresses: Jusuelo,
Kaunitz, Royce, Summers, and Vilarde. The Daisy Ducks. After each
name was an address and a phone number.
"Did some checking up while lying here on my
back. Those are the last known addresses. Can't say for sure on any
of them except Royce. I'm pretty sure he's still at the VA hospital
in Manila. They've got him in a padded cell and he's never getting
out."
"He violent?"
Roantis shrugged and yawned. "Who knows? Maybe.
He's wacko though. Summers is probably still in Chicago if he's not
dead yet. But Vilarde's da guy I want."
"Liatis, which of these guys shot you?"
He shook his head slowly back and forth on the
pillow.
"Doc, it wasn't any of .'em. Trust me. The only
one of them who knows about the Siva is Ken, and it couldn't be him.
I'm giving you the list because these guys are good leads to finding
him."
"You're sure."
"I'm positive. What I'm not positive of, I'm not
positive he dint tell any of the others. I don't think he'd do that,
but you never know. A lot of time has passed and we were all pretty
close."
"If you were all so close, then why not sell the
statue and split the cash eight ways instead of two?"
"It was hard enough trying to split it two ways.
Can you imagine eight guys—scattered all over the globe, God knows
where—each waiting for his hunk of the loot? The way it was, I took
none of the first loot Siu Lok dished out, those gold pieces and
gems. I gave them to the guys. Old Siu Lok took me to that cache in
the dead of night. Me alone."
"So who was the rifleman? Who knows you well
enough to have tracked you down to my place? Somebody must have been
tailing you for days, Liatis. Who was it? If not one of the Ducks,
then who?"
He gave me the weary headshake again.
"It was a three-o-eight slug," I continued.
"That's the same as the NATO round."
"I can tell you right now what the rifle looked
like, okay, Doc? Can you remember it in your mind? It was jet black,
with a black plastic forepiece with three vent holes in the side.
Barrel projecting from the lower part of the forestock, and a
carrying handle above the receiver."
"I can't remember it clearly. I saw it mostly
from the muzzle end." .
"It was a Belgian FAL rifle. Take my word for
it. I know. It's the mercenary's rifle, worldwide. But that still
leaves it open. I know quite a few mercs, and some of them don't like
me."
"All right. But he took the key. He knew you
were wearing it and snipped it off you. You looked dead enough, so he
didn't finish you with his black knife."
"A black knife. You sure it was black?"
"As coal."
Roantis stroked his stubbled chin in thought. He
pointed at the paper I held in my hands.
"Find Vilarde. If I saved your life you can help
me find Vilarde. Besides, you're getting paid, too."
The phone on the bedside table rang and I picked it
up. It was Roantis's wife, Suzanne. I handed the receiver to him and
he grunted into it. He grunted again, and again, and his face grew
agitated. Then he swore, sighed, and seemed to collapse into the
pillow. His eyes were closed. I thought he'd passed out, but then the
eyes opened again.
"Read it to me again," he said.
There was a pause, then another sigh.
"Yeah, okay. I figured as much. What was the
date again? Yeah. No, nothing we can do. But I've got some good help,
so don't worry. Huh? His name is Charles Adams, you remember him.
He's standing right here."
I was not heartened by this monologue. I went over to
the guest chair and sank down into it. I smelled the bouquet sent to
Roantis by the Boston Tai Kwon Do Club. It didn't smell nice. Nothing
would have. Roantis hung up and glared at me.
"We just got a fancy receipt from Barclays Bank
in Kowloon. Guess what it says?”
"That the golden statue has danced right out of
his hiding place."
"Right. According to their records, Ken and I
took possession of the contents of Box 1001 at ten-thirty on the
morning of December thirty-first. The last day of the year. That's
two days after I was shot."
"And you're still positive Ken Vilarde didn't
shoot you?"
"Just find him, Doc. Or find out what's happened
to him." He sank back into the pillow and closed his eyes. I
left the room. As I descended the stairs, I turned on the landing and
found myself looking into a pair of shiny black eyes that were level
with mine. The eyes were surrounded by flawless olive skin. A small
delicate nose. Full lips that pouted a little. jet black hair that
glowed. The eyes were almond-shaped, the cheekbones wide and high. It
was an Asian face that was staring at me. The straight black hair was
gathered in a bun behind the woman's head, and fine tendrils of it
drifted around her beautiful face. The eyes and face bore a look of
sublime seriousness.
She was a six-footer—unheard of in Asian females. I
quickly looked down at her feet. Was she wearing high-heeled boots?
No, moccasins. Was she Mongolian? The North Chinese are huge. But her
face wasn't Mongolian. The skin was too dark and the face too
rounded. She looked Vietnamese. A gorgeous Vietnamese giant. How long
did I stand gaping at her? Six months?
"Excuse me," I murmured, too bewitched to
move.
She didn't reply. I was dying to hear her voice, but
she slipped by me, silent as a wraith. Just as our faces met she
smiled quickly. Beautiful. The last I saw of her was from behind, her
lithe form dressed in white jeans and a ski parka, rounding the turn
on the landing to continue up the stairway. Then she was gone.
5
I WENT HOME after that and made a pot of steaming
keemun, which I drank in the living room while holding the list in
front of me. Certainly Roantis needed help; he was dead broke and
soon would be over his head in debt. And I owed him a big favor. Big,
but not huge.
The five-by-seven list in my hand looked huge. It had
the presence of the Magna Carta or the Declaration of Independence. I
picked up the phone and dialed the overseas operator. Manila was on
the opposite side of the globe from Boston. I told the operator I
wanted to place a call to the U.S. military hospital there at ten
RM., which would be midmorning over there. Next I called the number
after Vilarde's name. Out of service. So much for that. I called
Rosie Vilarde in LA. No answer. I called the Flying K Ranch in
Leander, Texas, and asked to speak to Fred Kaunitz. A nice lady with
a heavy Mexican accent said that Senor Kaunitz was "no en casa"
at the moment. I left a message for him to call me back collect,
saying I was a close friend of a mutual friend, Liatis Roantis. I
wasn't certain she got the message entirely correct, but it was clear
enough. Back to Rosie Vilarde, still not home. On to Mike Summers.
Last known address was 5472 South Woodlawn, in the Hyde Park section
of the South Side of Chicago. As a sometime visitor to the University
of Chicago, I was acquainted with the area. Parts of Hyde Park are
very nice. Other sections are very mean. The address indicated that
Summers lived north of the Midway Plaisance, which meant it was
probably decent. South of the Midway, you might need an armored
personnel carrier to get around safely. There was no number. I called
Information and was told there were eight or nine Michael Summerses
in Hyde Park. None lived at 5472 South Woodlawn. I finally boiled it
down to three likely prospects, and struck out on all of them. Next I
tried the Summerses under women's names. I finally found it under
Ella C. Summers, 9605 South Blackstone. Ella herself answered, saying
she was Mikey's mamma. Mikey worked for a security company, night
shift. She didn't know where he was now. Probably down at the Blue
Flame Lounge around the corner.
It didn't sound as if Michael Summers, formerly of
the Daisy Ducks, had found himself a comfy and lucrative niche in the
civilian world. I asked Ella Summers to have Mike call me collect
when he returned. I did not expect him to take me up on my offer, but
I'd keep trying anyway.
I went out to the florist's and bought Mary a dried
flower arrangement as a token of peace. Then I went to the wool shop
and bought her some new tartan cloth that had just arrived from the
Outer Hebrides. She could sew herself a kilt from it. A couple of
silver Scottish thistle pins completed the package. These I
gift-wrapped and placed on the hall table. I was not trying to buy
her off; one does not buy off a woman like Mary. I was just trying to
smooth the way a little. She had remained pleasant, but distant,
during the past two weeks.